Irritation
Sometimes I am convinced that he reads things in my mind that even I cannot
see. He knows the questions to ask ... when to press harder ... when it is of no
importance ... when I am speaking 'kitsch' and when the entire truth is
revealed, whether I know the truth of my thinking at that point or not.
Last night I came to the falls feeling a vague irritation in general that only
grew worse the longer I was there. It was best for me to simply not speak and so
I did not. I almost asked him if I could return home and would have offered the
excuse that I had not completed my chores. The irritation was becoming so great
that I would have rather risked a whipping than to stay there.
At about that time, we left. His words when we reached Samsara were quiet.
"Speak, slavegirl." He did not give direction as to topic and in a rambling
discourse about cleaning and market jugglers, I threw in that I was irritated at
the falls. His order was simple: "Elaborate."
I could not. I knew what irritated me, but not why, and began to list things.
Again, quietly, he asked one question. "Who wears my collar." It focused me. It
quieted me. The irritation slipped away as easily as the silks fall from my
body.
He did not ask me to explain anything further. There was no need.